Ooops. I Did It Again…
in Giggles on June 30, 2024
It’s been almost a year since I landed myself with a brand new set of x-rays. Some of you might remember how exceptionally skilled I am (not) at standing still, and subsequently being knocked off my feet and onto my bum by two very large and enthusiastic dogs. If you need a refresher course for that encounter, please click here.
I blame it on generational clumsiness. This inability that I have to navigate life relatively unscathed, I fear, is always going to be just out of my reach. In fact, most of the time, when I do something to myself, my husband will shake his head, grin, and say “Wow babe, you really Mimi’d that up.”
Stories about my grandmother, Mimi, are legendary throughout my family. That woman couldn’t navigate a trip to the grocery store without supervision. Unfortunately, it appears that I inherited all of those traits.
I have to say, this is the most uncomfortable and weird blog post I have ever written. It’s not because I am sporting a new pink cast, but rather because I am not actually writing this blog post. I’m dictating it; like a middle aged, squat, balding, chauvinistic, cigar smoking, ad man from the 1950s to his willing and pliable secretary. In the place of the naive secretary, sits my youngest son. Why Elliott, you might ask? Because he can type almost as fast as I can think, and I thought he needed to be included in this family-filled dumpster fire because his brother and sister also have parts to play.
What happened?
Well, obviously, it’s because we are expecting a grandbaby.
Last weekend, I was in New Mexico helping my son and daughter-in-love ready the house for baby Waylon’s impending arrival. My task was to purge and organize left over moving boxes and an assortment of other homeless items that made the trip from Texas to New Mexico. Sounds easy and straightforward doesn’t it?
It should have been.
After a long and productive day of sorting various items for donation, garbage, and still other items for relocating in the house, we were nearing the finish line. The final action item was to move the loveseat from the living room into the bonus room. Because stepping into the bonus room required navigating two steps, I thought Ethan should walk backwards carrying his half of said loveseat. We are all familiar with my inability to stand upright in certain situations. I even said, “You go backwards Ethan. It is safer.”
I.Was. Wrong.
In the ten feet between the living room and the door of the bonus room, I managed to stumble and fall over—not down, just over, and sandwich myself between a loveseat and a very immovable kitchen chair. To my credit, I did not drop the loveseat, and the stairs offered no resistance to me. A week later, I still don’t know if I tripped…If my knee decided not to lock into place…If I tripped over the dog…a dog that weighs 110 pounds. I have no idea how I managed this. What I do know, is that the end result was a broken arm.
A broken arm.
After we settled the loveseat into its new home, Ethan and I both instinctively looked at my right arm. Ethan’s response was, “Holy cow Mom, what did you do?!” My response was, “I think I need to sit down. Maybe you could get me some ice.”
Ten minutes later, Ethan was driving me to urgent care.
The irony of this scene is that throughout Ethan’s childhood, he was the one sitting shotgun on the way to have x-rays, and on more occasions than I remember, we left with something splinted or casted. This was not lost on him last weekend.
After three hours in the urgent care in Nowhere, New Mexico, I left with a new splint, a disc of pictures, and instructions to visit a doctor in Houston should my symptoms persist. They assured me nothing was broken.
It felt broken.
Three days later, I made the 14 hour drive from their house to my house…with what we now know was a broken arm. The day after my return home, I saw my orthopedic who, within 10 seconds of looking at my original x-rays, confirmed my suspicions that I had managed to get a hairline fracture just below my right wrist. He walked me over to the casting room where I picked out the pinkest version of plaster—do they still use plaster—available.
I am ridiculously right-handed. I find it both humorous and supremely annoying that I am now solely reliant upon my less than dominant hand to accomplish basic daily activities. Luckily, my daughter has recently moved back home. My daughter, who is a hairdresser. Her new role is to shampoo and blow dry my hair and apply my makeup before I leave the house every day. She is not thrilled with her new job description, but she dutifully complies.
I have to admit, this is probably worse than when I broke my tailbone last summer, although MUCH less painful, but ranking MUCH higher on the annoyance scale. You don’t realize how much you need your dominant hand until it become unavailable.
Unless Elliott wants to come back weekly and type for me (I, Elliott, could be convinced), I’ll have to pause until mid-July for further updates. That will be when several things converge at once: the baby is due, the cast comes off, and I embark on the long trek back to New Mexico. Stay tuned, things should get interesting from here.
Stay safe and have a great Fourth!
One thought on “Ooops. I Did It Again…”
Comments are closed.
Jean Smith says:
Sending prayers and hugs for your recovery. “Be still and know that I am God.” Psalm 46:10